


Not Fighting Blood

by ordinarily (tofty)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-28
Updated: 2009-08-28
Packaged: 2017-10-15 09:45:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/159538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tofty/pseuds/ordinarily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not much farther to fall than this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Fighting Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Written for round two of the blindfold kink meme. Not a pretty story, or a pretty Sam, or a pretty Dean.

As much as Sam’d like to say he’s _sad_ or _sorry_ to see Dean like this, he can’t really. Both things are there, sure, part of the baggage that Ruby’s tried to convince Sam to shed in order to get on with his life. He never did get rid of all that stuff, not altogether, not quite, but to keep Ruby from bitching he’s learned not to mention it or act on it, and if she recognizes the difference between not-feeling and repression, she’s never mentioned it, and neither has he. It’s just easier that way, and the longer Sam pushes his way past the softer stuff, the easier it gets to ignore it, until by now, he feels it the way he might feel a mosquito bite, itchy and annoying but ultimately nothing to worry about.

So even though there’s sadness and sorrow mixed in somewhere, mostly what he’s feeling now, looking across at Dean, shot glasses lined up in front of him like toy soldiers on the losing front, is anger. He’s fucking _angry_ that Dean can’t get through a fucking meal without getting fucking trashed. Granted, he’s been literally to hell and back, and obviously that’s exponentially more fucked up than anything that’s ever happened to either of them, ever, but Sam’s right here, ready to listen, ready to take some of the weight on his own shoulders, ready to do whatever he can, and Dean won’t have it. Would apparently rather drink himself to sleep every night for the rest of his life rather than just fucking let Sam try to help.

And Sam’s having a hard time just letting that go. If you catch him in a confessional mood, he’ll admit that he’s never been especially good at letting go. He finds it almost impossible to just watch Dean slide deeper in, unconscious every night, fully clothed and shod, drooling face pressed into the skanky-ass bedspreads of the motels they find themselves in. Can’t watch him wake every morning shaking, maybe from dreams but more likely from withdrawal, until he wraps himself around that first half-pint and gets out of bed to brush his teeth.

What he wants is to make it stop, to bring back his brother, not necessarily the one who refused him any sort of partnership rights for years, but the one who had his back, who made sure that whatever Sam went through, he didn’t have to go through it alone, and he wants to pay Dean back in kind. Wants them to be equal partners for once. And wouldn’t you know it that about the time Sam’s willing to step up to the partnership, Dean wants to back down and let Sam do the work.

No one ever said their timing was good.

And so they’re sitting here at this hole-in-the-wall bar and grill, Dean ignoring his burger and getting sloppier with every passing minute and Sam just watching, just pissed off, and he doesn’t know what he’s got to do to break this stalemate. He just knows that something’s got to give, and soon.

:::

When he looks back later, it’s easy to see what gave and where. One too many derisive remarks from Ruby about caregiving the perpetually-blitzed, one too many nights spent saving Dean’s ass after fights picked with Sam and bartenders and bouncers about what his limits are, and all Sam can think is hey, you want to do this, I’m not gonna get in your way any more. He does learn to let things go eventually. In a way. If you squint right.

And so he backs off, stops fighting, lets it happen. And after a while, the anger’s not gone, exactly, but it’s at least not seething on the surface of their lives, and Sam pushes past it the way he does, anymore. He watches to make sure Dean doesn’t actually kill himself or anyone else, but short of that, he doesn’t nag, doesn’t interfere.

And then there are the nights he’s fresh off a trip to Ruby, more often now that it’s become so easy to slip away from Dean. Those nights the blood rides so close to the surface that his skin’s flushed and hot with it. It rises up in him until he can’t do anything but let it take over, and on those nights, with the scent of Ruby clouded around him, he feels so utterly in control that he’ll find himself buying the fucking drinks for Dean, practically plying him with alcohol like an unscrupulous frat boy with a cheap date, just to see what mayhem will result from the effort. Because whatever it is, it won’t be anything he can’t handle, right?

Some interesting nights that way, for sure, more often than not ending with the two of them fishtailing out of parking lots at top speed to shake whoever’s chasing them. And it takes the edge off, and it’s kind of fun besides, and Dean doesn’t seem to care or hell half the time even remember the next day, and if Dean doesn’t care, why should he?

:::

There’s this one night on the semi-industrial outskirts of Baton Rouge, he’s riding hard, juiced all the way up and nowhere to go because Ruby’s got a lead she’s got to follow and she can’t stick around to fuck, which is something he’s come to need after a session. Ruby slips her hand down the front of his pants and jerks him off hard and fast, both of them fully-dressed, and that’s all she wrote; she drops him unceremoniously back at the motel after three in the morning, and the car door isn’t even shut behind him, a million CCs of adrenaline pumping through him and come drying on the inside of his shorts, before she’s driving off the same way she does most things – quickly, neatly, and without a backward glance – heading east on Airline Highway into Cancer Alley.

Sam takes a deep breath in an attempt to slow his heartbeat a little, fumbles with the motel key until somehow he’s on the right side of the door. To his surprise, Dean’s awake – conscious – sitting upright, in a manner of speaking, back against the headboard, watching QVC with an indifferent expression. There’s an empty bottle in his hand, but he doesn’t seem especially drunk, and when he turns his head to look at Sam, there’s an uncomfortably percipient expression on his face that makes Sam wish he weren’t quite so apparently sober as he seems.

“So. Where ya been, Sammy? Couldn’t sleep, right? Went for a walk? To grab a burger? For a ride in a crummy-ass late-model Mustang?” Dean’s voice is as bitter as Sam’s ever heard it. His hands are trembling, he can’t will himself down fast enough, he’s afraid his own voice will come out all fucked up if he says anything. So he just stands there awkwardly, motel key clutched in his hand. Dean holds his gaze for what seems like a full minute but is in reality probably only a few seconds, and then he sighs.

“Look, Sam, I’m too tired to fight tonight. If you don’t feel like explaining, fine. Maybe you could take another breath of fresh air and walk down to the store on the corner, yeah? I’m drying out here.” He shakes the empty bottle, and Sam turns around without a word and gets the hell out, anger messily smearing over whatever’s underneath, walks so he doesn’t say anything stupid.

When he gets back, fifths of JD and Cuervo in either fist, Dean’s upright on his own steam and Sam feels back in control, anger subsided into a drumbeat through his veins. His voice is steady when he asks, “Tennessee or Mexico, man?”

“Mexico.”

Sam hands over the bottle and cracks the JD for himself.

:::

When dawn breaks, Dean’s not so upright any more, and Sam’s made healthy inroads on the JD, though it doesn’t have much effect on him, nights like this. He watches Dean get steadily drunker without rancor, with maybe even a little envy. He doesn’t understand post-Hell Dean all the time, but he does get, sometimes, what Dean’s reaching for; after all, he’s been known to reach for it himself. Not in the same ways, maybe, but still.

He’s leaning back against the headboard with Dean, QVC still burbling cheerfully at them as they sit side by side, but he’s not relaxed in the least; if anything, he’s more wired than he’s been all night. The effects of Ruby’s handjob have long since worn off; his erection’s almost painful; his heart’s thrumming until he can feel it behind his eyes; the polyester bedspread feels like sandpaper against his skin; his feet, planted knees-up on the bed, are twitching involuntarily. He can’t leave again, not with Dean still conscious, but if he doesn’t do something to come down, it’s all gonna come boiling out of him in some way he doesn’t really want to imagine.

He can’t just say, “hey Dean, feel like you can get some sleep now?” because Dean’s going to take it in exactly the spirit in which a question like that will be intended, about 10% solicitousness and 90% go-to-sleep-so-I-can-get-the-fuck-out. So this is what he says instead:

“Drinking game?”

Dean give him a sidelong look, eyes glinting. “Why not? What are the rules?’

Sam gestures at the perky QVC host with his bottle, slurring his words a little. “How about. Every time someone says “low price” we drink.”

Dean barks out a laugh. “Dude, we’ll be out in half an hour.”

Sam grins back at him. “Hey, that’s the idea. It’s six in the morning. We gotta sleep sometime, right?” He taps the neck of his bottle into Dean’s with a clink. “Last man standing wins.”

:::

And so they play. Another hour on, Sam’s tipping his own bottle back without swallowing, but Dean’s barely holding himself up, exhaustion and tequila working their magic, fast, but not necessarily fast enough for Sam, blood still beating too strongly in him for comfort. So Sam leans on Dean’s shoulder, takes the bottle of Cuervo in hand, tips it back for Dean, too much so that it splutters all over them both, only a little swallowed. Dean’s in a fugue state, too far gone to do much more than half-laugh, and suddenly he’s tipping sideways on the mattress, finally on his way to unconsciousness, eyes fluttering, more shut than open, and Sam’s half on top of him, panting into the side of his neck, and here it comes, roiling up in him, he can maybe control it but he doesn’t, because this is maybe what he’s been waiting for all night, stuck inside, only one person in town who knows him, who he knows, only one shortcut to what he needs.

He tips Dean onto his back and pushes his nose into Dean’s neck, pressing in until his lips are touching it too. “Dean,” he whispers. “You still playing?”

Dean snuffles. “Mmmore.” Sam tips the bottle back for him again, and this time when Dean sputters, the tequila pools in his eye sockets. He moans faintly, and Sam grins and leans up to sip it carefully back out. “That’d sting like fuck if you were in any condition to feel it.” He bites down gently, very gently, on Dean’s nose. His erection presses so hard into his jeans and his sticky shorts that he’s pretty sure he could get off by wriggling a little, but he tamps it down because that’s not what he wants, not now that he’s figured it out, funny how his brain sometimes needs time to catch up to his instincts.

“’SgoodthingIcan’tfeelt,” Dean mumbles, voice so heavily slurred Sam has to think about what he’s hearing and translate the sounds.

His hand moves up to cup Dean’s throat. “Dean, does this mean I win?”

Dean paws inelegantly at Sam’s face, groans something that might be intended as actual speech but really isn’t, and Sam rolls his hips against Dean, distantly surprised that something that makes him so furious so often can be such a turn-on tonight.

“Dean.” He rolls over with Dean, pinning him face-down with his wrists to his sides, and kneels up over him. When he lets go, Dean stays exactly where Sam put him. “DeanDeanDean.” He flattens himself over Dean so that he can put the bottle of tequila on the floor, and Dean moans. “Dean, I have to do this, okay, you have to let me do this.” He reaches under Dean to pull open his jeans and shorts, tugs them down and off his hips with hands that are too amped and shaky to be gentle. He yanks his own jeans open so quickly that his dick protests, and then he’s shoving into Dean, spit and precome and no prep, and it’s too tight and it kinda really hurts, but it feels so fucking good, too, the short, brutal strokes scraping into Dean’s motionless body feel so unimaginably, impossibly good that he can’t imagine wanting to be anywhere else, coming inside anyone else, tonight or maybe ever again.

His too-sensitive skin feels like its own entity now, separate from his brain, desperate to scrub itself numb in and over and against Dean’s body, and as he pushes up into Dean, he’s one-handedly pulling up his own shirt and then Dean’s, not off, because that would mean pulling too far away, maybe even out, and that’s simply not an option right now, Sam couldn’t stop now even if he wanted to which he doesn’t, can’t control the way he’s fucking into Dean, tiny, quick, juddering strokes that only seem to get more out of control as he sprawls heavily over Dean, half-bared back to half-bared chest, as he spreads Dean’s legs wider and wider, comes into contact with more bared skin, pushes them into positions that would definitely cause a soberer Dean some serious discomfort but which only wring a whimper from him now as Sam sinks deeper in.

And here, oh God, _finally_ , the adrenaline is rushing through Sam, spinning up and up out until it’s all he can do not to blow apart completely, and he dimly recognizes the feeling from fucking Ruby, that it’s all going to contract into him and when he comes, it’ll come rushing out with a force that’ll pull him off the edge and re-center him, and he knows what’s coming from all the times that came before this one, but fuck if he can feel it now, all he can feel is Dean’s ass pulling at him, all he can smell is Dean’s tequila sweat, all he can see is the little stretch of neck between Dean’s pushed-up shirt and his hairline that he’s intent on claiming, licking and sucking at it, and all the time his hips are pistoning, fucking Dean as if both their lives depend on it. Which right now it really feels as though they do.

Sam holds it off for as long as he can, but that’s not long, and it all spins out of his dick and a silent, hissing, clenching bite on the back of Dean’s neck, and it’s a hard bite but Dean doesn’t so much as stir.

:::

After he comes down, he wipes Dean down carefully and wriggles Dean’s unprotesting body back into his shorts, leaving the jeans puddled on the floor. He pulls Dean’s shirt down, runs his fingers lightly along the mark on the back of Dean’s neck, which is definitely gonna be black in the morning, and Dean won’t see it but Sam will catch glimpses of it for a week or so, and it will hit him low in the belly and throat, a filthy admixture of shame and hunger, and he will tell himself he’ll never do this again but will suspect that if he ever gets the chance he’ll take it without hesitation, because it turns out that tight, tiny, clear-headed Ruby, even when she writhes on his dick like she’s waited for centuries to do it, can’t begin to compare to a sodden, semiconscious Dean, open and unprotesting and beloved. It’s unexpected, but it’s true.

And he’ll wonder for a long time whether Dean remembers any of it; but even if Dean remembers anything, Sam’s absence and reappearance, the drinking, the fuck, Sam knows he won’t mention any of it. They don’t talk about these things any more, and Sam’s learned to live with that, the way he always learns to live with the worst things imaginable go in order to survive.

**Author's Note:**

> The title's from "On the Battlefront" by The dB's.


End file.
